


mr. sandman...please take this back

by jane_wanderlust



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_wanderlust/pseuds/jane_wanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot and the carnival ride of dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mr. sandman...please take this back

\-------------------

   
The day started out like any other: any other day of any other week. Eliot was sitting at the counter of Nate’s apartment, not listening to Hardison, who was talking about some nerd shit he didn’t exactly understand, care about, or want to hear.  
   
So, all in all, typicality was reigning free.  
   
Nate was nursing a glass of something amber, exhaustively fielding Sophie, who was breaking her words on his shoulders, hands gesturing circles through the air.  
   
Eliot turned his head to a slight degree leftward, and (against his will, to be honest, working with the team had instilled in him a need for assessing and calculating whereabouts of every member even when he’d rather not) sought out Parker. A flicker of blonde in his peripheral, and there she was.  
   
Parker was walking past him, backward, and if odd to anyone else, it wasn’t to him, not anymore. Typicality and Parker tended to result in circus act shit.  
   
So Parker was walking past him, backward, and she wasn’t wearing pants, and it was all very –  
   
Except no. That was new. Eliot half attempted to avert his eyes, but they felt dry and anchored to the expanse of her skin that whatever corner of fucking crazy in her mind had decided would be appropriate to expose.  
   
He opened his mouth to protest, to yell, something – he didn’t know; shifted his gaze to Hardison, who would have  _definitely_ noticed such a display of Parker (pathetic really, Eliot thought, it was so just…lame: Hardison’s thing for Little Miss Loco). But Hardison wasn’t even looking or blinking, just listing components of shit Eliot really, really didn’t care about; and what the hell?  
   
How was Hardison  _not_  staring at pantsless Parker, mouth popped open, fish-like, so that Eliot could comment on his luck of catching flies?  
   
What the hell kind of day was this anyway?  
  
(Parker was doing plies now, lean muscles bunching and flexing with the bend of her legs.)  
   
Eliot turned to Nate and Sophie, and Sophie was cutting Nate’s hair, telling him that dukes don’t wear their hair long anymore, and didn’t he want to appease standards? Wasn’t that really what this was all about? Standards; going unnoticed all the time?  
   
Eliot felt the pinch of a headache behind his eyes; the pinch of something else – something deeper, something lower – when he saw Parker curve toward her legs, press her mouth to her skin.  
  
Fucking hell. Was he roofied? He was going to kill Hardison. Except when he looked back to where he had been sitting, Hardison was gone, and everything felt wide and empty so Eliot turned and when Parker moved, he followed.  
   
Yeah, definitely fucking roofied.  
   
But whatever, he thought;  _fuck it._  If she pulled out some crazy ninja skills and tried to attack him, he figured she only weighed about eighteen pounds, and besides, he could totally take her. If he wanted to. Which, he thought, he might: want to.  
   
 _Fuck._  
   
Eliot rounded the corner behind Parker, and instead of the hall of Nate’s place, they were in a dark room now and there were pine trees dropping needles on the floor. It smelled clean and whole, and he felt something pull at his stomach.  
   
“Parker?” he asked, voice sounding distorted and grasping. “What the fuck is goin’ on?” he asked again, consulting the air around him, testing, testing.  
   
The whole goddamn world had shifted on its axis. What was this job about anyway?  
   
Parker curled out from behind a tree and fuck him, her top was gone too, and she was just – she was –  _fuck._  Was she  _trying_  to kill him?  
  
All the miles of pale skin were practically glowing, and really it should have pissed him off, made him worried, freaked him out, but for some stupid reason all he could do was stare, and feel slightly nervous. He balled his fists for all the feelings of uselessness coursing in his bones, and what the hell planet did she come from where it was acceptable to greet someone naked?  
   
Eliot didn’t realize he’d said it out loud, until Parker was answering him.  
   
“Earth,” she told him, and the word sounded too close to a “ _duh_ ;” the quirk of her brow mocking, and really, this was the weirdest of weird Parker shit, and it was unnerving. He wasn’t enjoying this branch of crazy, even though he felt like the view might be acceptable.  
   
Oh  _god,_  he was such a pansy. He was  _Hardison_ , now.

Why was he thinking this shit? What did Hardison put in his drink? Why couldn’t he remember drinking anything?  
   
His mouth felt entirely too dry, and Parker was walking closer, lifting on her toes to try and reach him, and he thought: that wasn’t necessary, not really. There wasn’t much difference between them, but still. But still. She was reaching, reaching and he felt weightless and trapped.  
   
There was something combative he could easily start from his current position. Duck under the rise of her shoulder, curl around her back, pull her arm to pin her to the wall she was pinning him to. But he didn’t, and he wondered what the hell that – of all things – said about him.  
   
He could feel her breath on his mouth and he could – he could…  
   
 _Fuck it._  
   
He circled his arm around her lower back, palmed the curve of her ass, sucked in the air she was breathing out, and when she laughed it tickled his mind. It was birdlike and fuck, what was she doing to him? Pansy, weak, stupid.  
   
Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
   
Parker arched toward him, and her mouth wasn’t mean. It was warm and wet and he felt his mouth curve in and –  
   
“Eliot.  _Eliot._  Eliot!” Parker’s voice sounded louder now, shrill. There was something poking him incessantly in the shoulder. He was going to break it, happily.  
   
He opened one eye and saw Parker on his bed – bouncing, really - sitting creepily close to his chest. His eyes darted quickly down, and yeah, she was wearing pants now. And a top. The sweater had a moose stitched into the front, but really, that piece of crazy was much more fitting to Parker than the lack of a shirt altogether.  
   
The image – the memory – wrapped around his vision, and he really, really needed Parker to get out of his room. She was doing things to him.  
   
“What?” he asked, gruff, sharp, sleep-thickened.  
   
“Make me pancakes,” she said, not asked. She poked him once more, but it was softer, and lingered on the rise of his collarbone, tracing the scar raised on his bared skin.  
   
Something pinched low in his stomach. He opened his other eye, narrowed them dangerously in her direction. Either she got the hint (he doubted it), or had completed her task, because Parker (gracefully) rose from her position on his bed and stood.

“Blueberry,” she informed him, walking – forward, thankfully – out of his room.  
   
He didn’t even wonder how she got in, and that – _that_ – of all things, worried him more than anything. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbed out the remnants of his dream – the taste and feel of her – lifted himself from his bed, and started the day.  
   
Just like any other.  


\-------------------

**Author's Note:**

> For madjm over at LJ.


End file.
